Not much has changed.

I wrote the following back in high school. I don’t believe I’ve posted it anywhere and I’m nearly positive only one person has read it, up until this point. Its nothing special and it’s fairly short. Here you go.

Over and out.

CLAUDE.

“I’m a very visual person,” Claude mumbles this around a mechanical pencil he had been slobbering on while he worked at erasing something on the sketchpad in front of him. The eraser that was once there is, if you had to guess, in his stupid stomach. You could see slobber glistening down the length of the plastic pencil and it caused your stomach to flip and squirm. It’s mutilated and shining, coated like a dog toy. You say nothing, just move your head stiffly up and then down. Cool, Claude. That’s just so fucking cool. “What I mean by that is like, I can picture these things in my head and they just, bam!” His mechanical dog toy is jutted into the air, flinging slobber for emphasis. “It transfers to paper. You get it?”

You get it? Like you’re some goddamn halfwit born to a mother that is also your aunt. Like you were dropped on your head and decided as clinically moronic… You think about asking him if he gets it himself. If he even understands the bullshit that leaves his lips. Claude thought you were useless because you didn’t slick your hair back and wear shitty designer clothes. He thought you to be an inadequate artist because you wore a very drab color palette and the brands didn’t tell everyone you were a first class prick. You didn’t work in an office, you weren’t a model, a fashion designer,an actor, you just. Painted. Why did you need to dress any certain way just to paint a picture?

“I get it,” you offer dully when he looks at you as if he’s waiting for a reply. He thought of you more like a bum, you could see it in the way his entire body cringed as you walked into a room. He didn’t understand function over fashion, absolutely hated your nicotine scented fingerless gloves. A sock hat, dark circles, disheveled hair, stubble growing in, these things generally completed what you imagine Claude and his friends probably called homeless chic. Who the hell decides what an artist is supposed to look like anyway? You hated Claude. Bottom line. Final decision. Period. End of story.

He looks at you skeptically for a moment as if trying to decide if he believes you. He really must think you’re thick as a brick. Do you just have that face? He doesn’t hum while he works, doesn’t stick his tongue out between his teeth, or squint his eyes. He doesn’t crinkle his brow or constantly push his hair out of his face. He reminds you of a robot, all action and no feeling. Its confusing as hell. You don’t know how he manages to feel anything. He doesn’t show it. You walk away, deeply bothered, and find yourself a nice quiet corner to ignore Claude and his real art from.

A visual person… Please. Anyone can visualize what Claude fucking sees. Its been put on a canvas ten million times before. You weren’t impressed when the first dude painted naked manly women laying in not-so-slutty poses and you weren’t impressed when Claude did it. It can be hanging in a museum or in a classroom, it doesn’t matter. You hate it.

And you fucking hate. Fucking. Claude.

A visual person can dream and put it on paper. They can feel and push it out through the paint. In their head they see something new and delightfully different and they make it happen. They aren’t painting Jesus Christ on his goddamn cross. They aren’t drawing a still life made up of three household objects. You can see that shit, sure. But what does that even fucking mean? Forget Claude. Forget still life. Forget art.

You begin painting and try to relax. You VISUALIZE Claude getting hit by a car and it helps.

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